


If You Run (He Will Chase You)

by thattrainssailed



Series: In the Devil's Territory [3]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood falling, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biblical Angels, Body Horror, Fallen Angels, How Alec joins Magnus in Edom, King of Hell Magnus Bane, Latter characters are hardly there, M/M, Prince of Hell Magnus Bane, Sort Of, dark magnus, edom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 08:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19764856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thattrainssailed/pseuds/thattrainssailed
Summary: There are no new fallen angels.Heaven has made sure of that. After the first exodus, the betrayal of those now known as the Greater Demons, the forces above seem to have put extra effort into indoctrination. There is no room for doubt among their ranks, whether residing on heaven or on earth. And even as angels have disappeared, sequestered into wherever they choose to make their holy presence, their children follow in their example of faith. The divine gives them no choice in their dedication. Even those who stray from the path, those like Valentine, savages such as Jonathan, remain devoted to their angelic lineage.There is no reason to consider a nephilim falling. It is not done.Of course, Alexander has never found peace in tradition.





	If You Run (He Will Chase You)

There are no new fallen angels.

Heaven has made sure of that. After the first exodus, the betrayal of those now known as the Greater Demons, the forces above seem to have put extra effort into indoctrination. There is no room for doubt among their ranks, whether residing on heaven or on earth. And even as angels have disappeared, sequestered into wherever they choose to make their holy presence, their children follow in their example of faith. The divine gives them no choice in their dedication. Even those who stray from the path, those like Valentine, savages such as Jonathan, remain devoted to their angelic lineage.

There is no reason to consider a nephilim falling. It is not done.

Of course, Alexander has never found peace in tradition.

It begins with yearning. Magnus and Alexander are not used to being parted; even on their busiest weeks, they are usually but a portal away from one another. Even if they cannot have days and nights, they can at least have stolen moments in one another’s arms before the flood takes them each again. But then Magnus descends to Edom, and suddenly the distance between them is in all ways unquantifiable.

Alexander’s reaction to Magnus’ decision is… surprising. It is not one he makes behind the shadowhunter’s back, of course; all the power in hell could not tempt him if it meant the loss of his Alexander. When he explains it - the compromise, the opportunity, the chance to rule hell not alongside his father but instead of him - the man watches him silently, carefully. For a long time, he says nothing. When he finally does speak, it is not a question that Magnus expected.

“Will I ever see you again?”

It isn’t hesitant, exactly, but cautious. A dip into a pool with no visible bottom, gauging whether he will discover easy sand or hopeless open water. His voice does not quaver, but his eyebrows angle down, readying a fall into disappointment.

“Angel,” Magnus says, and covers Alexander’s hands with his own. “Of course you will.” The shadowhunter nods slowly. He leans in and kisses Magnus softly on the cheek.

“Do what you have to.”

It is not a blessing, nor is it an argument.

The transition is not entirely smooth. It turns out that having a life on earth gives careening into hell a frustrating amount of admin. Clients have to be informed, friends reassured, responsibilities handed over. It takes almost a month in total, and every day Magnus feels the pull grow stronger. His feet burn against the concrete of New York, the need for fire burning him from the inside out. Edom _begs_ for him from beneath. They must wait. They wage their protest against his absence.

The night before he descends, Magnus and Alexander curl up on the loft’s couch together. The space is not packed away; rather, it stands homely, albeit uncharacteristically organised. After all, it is not just his any more, even though they never made the move-in official. Magnus tucks his arm tighter around his nephilim and tries not to think of the man lonely in the loft. Alexander shifts ever closer in kind. His head dips slightly to drop a kiss to his boyfriend’s shoulder. Something mindless and mundane plays on the television - two men sitting side by side in a black car, bickering over some child they’ve misplaced - and Magnus cannot help but think that he will miss this. Not the television, not the mundanes, but _this_ \- mindless comfort in this little haven of theirs, his beautiful nephilim sleepy and content beside him, nothing joining them but love and safety and happiness. Hell calls, but tenderness clings.

When they lay in bed later, Alexander drapes himself over Magnus as always. A long pale leg slings over his own, black hair tickling his chin and the top of his chest. Magnus rests a hand on his lover’s shoulder and closes his eyes. In the darkness, he hears a prayerful breath never meant to be heard. “Please don’t go.”

He clings to Alexander tighter, but the shadowhunter does not react.

He’s gone when Magnus wakes up.

~~

The descent into hell is _blissful_.

Magnus’ body responds to Edom the second he steps from the portal and onto the burning desert. The air around him is thick with the scent of demon, cooking with the heat of the realm, but when Magnus breathes in all his senses alight with joy. Lightning cracks across the sky above him followed by a high clap of thunder that melts his muscles into requiescence. He steps forward, and the sand below instantly jerks and warps into glass.

The prodigal son’s return is mapped by mirrors.

He stands alone in them.

The realm adjusts to him immediately. His father hands over control to him and immediately he feels the palace latch onto his presence, waiting for a command, for the will of this new king to transform the building and then ripple out into Edom’s ocean of desert. His garnet throne rises first. He follows it with a wave of magic, strong enough to whip the sands into a storm that lasts for weeks. Demons scream as grit blinds them, chokes them, and by the time it is over the hell’s inhabitants raise their terrible heads to this new dynasty.

Magnus looks on from his blood-hued seat.

He knows that he fits here. He has never been more at home.

But there is a breach in his contentment.

It takes a month for the king of hell to gather the nerve to call Alexander.

It takes a few flicks of magic to hone the signal, but soon enough the rings are broken by a _click_ and a breathless, “Magnus?".

Magnus melts.

It’s a little awkward at first - months of intimacy followed by one of silence, now broken. The slow “how are you”s curl anxiety in Magnus’ belly. Unspoken fear that this is too much, that the distance between hell and earth it too great for even them to bridge. But as he listens to Alexander’s voice, drinks in the tone, the gorgeous ever-present drawl, Magnus cannot find it in himself to give up hope. And so he talks, speaks of Edom and progress, and he can tell that the subject is still not quite fitted to his nephilim, but at that moment it does not matter. What matters are the words. And when they come, they flood from his mouth, stories and thoughts that have piled up in the “share with Alexander” part of his brain over the last month. In return he finds amused huffs and the occasional snorts, followed by a matching sea of news from New York; the Institute and its people; the downworlders and their politics; and most importantly, _Alexander._ His life, and his career, because of course he is prospering.

He’s halfway through an anecdote about a Clave party when it rushes from Magnus’ throat, finally too much to hold.

“I miss you, Alexander.”

The nephilim halts in his story. Even through the volatile reception in Edom, Magnus can hear him swallow.

“I miss you too. So much.”

The silence returns, but it is less laboured this time. He listens to his lover’s breaths, soft against the line, and takes a moment to reacquaint his memory with the pattern. Proof of life.

“Come visit,” Alexander says at last. Magnus can do nothing but immediately agree.

The event itself is less immediate. He always knew that Edom was volatile, but the reality of it requires adjustment. He has the skill, both innate and developed, but as much as he responds to the land, it takes a little longer for him to find perfect rhythm with it. Demons must be disciplined, souls must be managed, summons must be returned. By the time Magnus has found the top of his infernal admin, another two months have passed on earth. They have shared phone calls in the interim - Magnus has even fashioned the realm an atmosphere that can handle texting - but it cannot quell all desires. As Magnus works, he cannot help but notice the spaces around him. All the places where his Alexander is not. Hell responds to his every movement, an infinity of souls bowing to his every whim, and in this land of demons, all Magnus hopes for is his nephilim. When Magnus arrives back in New York, he can hardly breathe from craving.

The loft has not changed. His decor is as he left it, a map of his life boasted on the walls of his former home. A statue from Tonga; paintings from Italy; ornaments from a warlock he once stumbled upon in rural Nepal. Remnants of a life on the surface.

His magic is still here, too. It rests like dust around the apartment, settling on every surface, ready for some shift to send it flying. Stagnant but not inert. What throws Magnus is the lack of anything else atop the furniture. Three months without frequent cleaning charms should have left the loft dusty at best, yet the surfaces are clean. Not clinical, but… cared for. In fact, as he looks around, he sees multiple signs of the apartment being lived-in. Plates drying beside the sink. A book dog-eared on the coffee table. A quiver propped against the wall beside the door.

Alexander chooses that moment to emerge from the bedroom. He’s wearing only sweatpants, his hair shower-wet and dripping.

He stops.

“Magnus?”

“Hello, Alexander.”

The nephilim sways on the spot, eyes tracing over Magnus’ figure as if trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick. He takes a hesitant step closer, then another. He reaches out an arm and places a hand on Magnus’ shoulder. Squeezes.

A second later Magnus is pulled into strong arms as the shadowhunter clings to him.

He wastes no time in clinging back.

~~

“It’s difficult not having you here.”

It’s hours later. They’re laid in bed together, the covers haphazardly pulled up over their tangled bodies, the gold sheets cool against their exhausted bodies. 

Magnus knew this conversation was coming. He’s known for months. They’ve spent his time here so far remembering one another, touching and kissing and holding and relishing the closeness and pleasure, but it all led to this inevitability. They may be together again, but it will be too soon that they will rediscover loneliness.

“I’m sorry,” Magnus says, and it’s true. He is content with his decision to rule hell, but he is not without regrets. He is unsure if he could ever be away from Alexander without regret.

His honesty bleeds into silence. Magnus grips his shadowhunter tighter, hand curving along his ribs, and Alexander presses his face further against Magnus’ shoulder.

The question hangs between them. The answer looms above.

Magnus cannot come back.

No one has outright said it, but they do not have it. Downworlders are on thin enough ice with the Clave as it is, even with the inside attempts at implementing equality (at that, Magnus presses a soft kiss to Alexander’s hair). To have the High Warlock of Brooklyn return to the house of his father, to have him assume that dynasty and take over Edom, is more than the ivory towers of Alicante are willing to compromise. Magnus know full well that if he were to return to the shadow world, he would be targeted immediately. He cannot emerge. Not yet.  
  
“What if I went with you?”

The question shatters the room. Magnus sits up, Alexander’s head sliding from his shoulder He stares. Alec returns it steadily.

“Not having you here… it’s torture. I thought it would get easier but nothing’s changed since you left. All I can think about every day is you, and how I don’t know when I’ll see you next, or if I’ll ever even see you again at all. I try to concentrate on work but it all comes back to you and it _kills_ me. Let me come back with you.” He moves forward, palm resting against Magnus’ jaw. “Please.” Magnus purses his lips. Slowly shakes his head.

“Absolutely not, Alexander. You’re a nephilim. Do you know what demons do to nephilim down there?”

“You’re part demon,” Alexander points out. Magnus exhales slowly.

“All the more reason for you to stay away from Edom. It brings out… more of me. More of those genetics. We can’t know that something awful won’t happen to you.”

“We can’t know if it won’t work out fine, either.” Alexander moves ever closer. Their foreheads rest together, his hand warm against Magnus’ skin, and the warlock cannot help raising a hand to stroke his lover’s cheek. 

He thinks of this, never ending. A second throne beside him, a voice alongside his in authority, a bed shared beneath red skies. He thinks of the man in his arms without the disquiet of looming goodbyes.

He thinks of the Institute. Of family. Of a career. A life.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

He tries not to feel the bare chill of the withdrawing body.

~~

The thing about lesser demons is that they are ultimately husks. Oh, there is some thought there, some vague suggestion of consciousness that clings to hive mind, but it’s so dubious that it is barely worth a mention. These kinds of demons act on wicked instinct alone, fuelled by the chaos they cause, considering no consequences for what to them is a singular directive.

It is this lack of cerebral substance that absolves Magnus of any guilt as he melts them one by one.

It isn’t personal. He has nothing in particular against lesser demons, beyond whatever grey-toned morality curls in his heart. It’s more that they are there, and they are plentiful, and the ache that comes with the constant thoughts of Alexander are so much that they need some way of escaping from him before he collapses with longing. It is but an afterthought that it should escape via his fingertips, and that more often than not the resulting magic finds itself hurtling toward some passing kuri demon.

It was inevitable that his kingship would turn him to a villain, he supposes. He did not expect for his beloved Alexander to be the first victim of his cruelty. It is best, though. He will save the shadowhunter from destruction.

And so Edom goes. Magnus rules it as best he can, continues his aims of reform and efficiency, only now they are tinged with some unnameable grief. He commands and his imagination conjures a second voice beside him, low and drawling and beautiful. He banishes the thought. He works harder.

They do not contact one another. He tells himself it is better until he is exhausted with attempted belief.

The summoning comes three months after Magnus’ last trip to earth. His phone hasn’t exactly been silent in that time; while Alexander has remained silent, his siblings have been oddly persistent in their bids to reach Magnus. The messages began a few weeks after he last saw Alexander. First Isabelle, asking Magnus to call her. Then phone calls, which of course remained unanswered. Then Jace joined in, his messages shorter and sharper than his sisters’, but with no less urgency. It is to do with Alexander. Magnus knows immediately. His hands shake with every deleted message, and when his phone buzzes the ground of Edom raptures and shakes. Still Magnus does not move. He knows he is wicked for it. Perhaps it is better for them to hate him.

He’s surveying a new hatch when the pull comes. One second infant Dantalion demons are emerging from the sand, and the next there’s a tug behind where his navel would be, jarring and unmistakable. Magnus has just a second of wondering what the fuck is happening before something hooks solidly into that same spot and suddenly he’s moving, Edom falling away, his body tearing through realm after realm until he bursts through the surface. His skin burns like it’s being flayed, his organs panicking and shutting down one by one as every moment stretches on like this; he opens his mouth to scream but it is immediately filled with dense air, some heavy gas that invades his jaws and forces its way into his deflated lungs, and he wonders where death so suddenly came from, what this transit is, if this is in fact limbo and he will be here forever more-

It stops as suddenly as it begins. The tearing abruptly stops, body coming to a halt. He feels his organs restore, lungs pushing out metallic air in a single gasp. The relief is so harsh that it takes Magnus a moment to realise that there is ground underneath him. Slowly, he opens his eyes.

An abandoned warehouse. Sigils scratched into the concrete floor. Black shapes rippling out, interrupted by pentagrams and yet more runes, forming patterns that are all too familiar. He does not miss the curling characters that etch his own name into the summoning circle. Magic throbs in his fingertips at the sight of the weighted runes.

And outside it all, Jace and Isabelle.

He says nothing but stares.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Magnus glares at Jace. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I am currently wrangling an entire demonic realm. Forgive me for not jumping to your every angelic whim. I’ve been _busy._ ” He doesn’t even try to keep the hiss from his voice.

“Too _busy_ to even check on your boyfriend?”

The word almost makes Magnus cringe, but he holds steady.

“I am not Alexander’s keeper.” It’s sour against his tongue. Isabelle steps closer. She does not touch the circle, but the tip of her boot brushes the paint.

“Is that it, then?” Her gaze bores into Magnus’. “You fuck off to hell and forget all about him? You don’t even care if he-” Her voice cracks and she shuts her mouth quickly, squeezing her eyes shut. Behind her, Jace shifts his weight. The sickness that has been building in Magnus’ stomach since he arrived in the warehouse climbs its way up his throat.

“If he what?” he asks quietly. Isabelle’s eyes open. Even separated by magic, Magnus can see the anguished redness.

“We don’t know.” She takes a deep breath. “About three months ago he just… stopped functioning. I mean, he was at work and everything, you couldn’t keep him away from his desk unless he was on patrol. But he wasn’t sleeping, he barely ate. The only thing in his system for about six weeks was coffee. Then one day he collapsed. Underhill found him passed out in his office. His, um… his phone was open and he was looking at your texts.” 

Magnus’ stomach heaves. 

_I did this I did this I did this_.

“At first we thought it was just exhaustion, but he slept for a whole week and nothing got better. And there was something else. This… energy around him. It wasn’t - isn’t - right. Every time I walk into the infirmary to see him there’s… something there. Like something’s about to attack. We called in the Silent Brothers. They think… they think it’s something old. Something to do with the angels. Raziel, it’s so much worse than we ever imagined. Whatever it is is starting to break down the Institute. Everything’s failing and Alec won’t wake up and we don’t know what to do!” The account leaves her shuddering, arms gripping each other across her chest. Jace steps forward and puts a hand on her shoulder. Swallows.

“Magnus, you’re the most powerful warlock we know. I don’t know what’s going on between you and Alec, but please. You have to help him.”

The flare already gathering in Magnus’ hands is answer enough.

~~

The abject chaos currently drowning the New York Institute does not stop its inhabitants from freezing when Magnus walks in, flanked by the Lightwood siblings. The place is in lockdown, red lights flashing from every direction, screens spewing unintelligible green text, runed weapons vibrating in their sheaths, and yet the shadowhunters stare the warlock down as he marches through the control room. An avenue of nephilic judgment. He wonders what they must think. He suspects that he knows.

Magnus Bane. The high warlock who defected to Edom. The king of hell who abandoned Alec Lightwood.

They know this is his fault.

As he makes his way through the turns of the Institute, Magnus cannot help but feel… at home. It is not the building itself, of course, nor the hostile nephilim who fill it. It’s something else, something unfamiliar to this space, but which Magnus somehow knows in his very bones. Something dark. The feeling floats high above his head, only growing in intensity as they approach the infirmary. He cannot help but notice that with every pulse of new extremity, Isabelle and Jace grow more uncomfortable. Magnus breathes in, and that same essence settles his racing blood.

By the time they enter the hospital, the atmosphere is thick with the semblance.

It’s emptier than Magnus expected. With all the shadowhunters darting around the rest of the Institute, he had assumed that the epicentre of the crisis would be filled with panic. The room is bare, all the bed pushed onto their sides against the wall except for one, around which two figures stand. Maryse Lightwood watches quietly, a hand covering her mouth, tears streaming soundlessly down her cheeks. Across from her, Brother Jeremiah hovers his hands over a body in the bed, shaking with effort ashe struggles against some unseen force.

Alexander lays unwaking. His skin is dull and clammy, pallor covering him down his neck and his bare chest. His mouth hangs half-open, limbs perfectly still, and terror shreds through Magnus. He’s too late. He waited too long. Alexander is gone.

The shadowhunter’s body jerks.

Everything explodes.

A wave of that same essence bursts into the room, so strong that even Magnus doubles over with the force. Brother Jeremiah dives forward, palms outstretched, but apparently he isn’t fast enough because before he can get there, Alexander’s body contorts again and then his flesh is moving. This skin of his torso rises and writhes until something stretches out from it, long and shaped and grasping. By the time Magnus realises with horror that it’s an arm, two more have emerged from Alexander’s ribs, fingers squirming blindly, elbows crooking grotesquely. The hand of the first arm flexes and opens. Against its palm is a single open eye.

Someone screams.

At the noise the arms twist again, stretching impossibly further from Alexander’s body until they wrap back around and arch over him, crossing over one another as more squirm from his flesh. They double over and cross and arch, their movements never ceasing, and as they curve wider and wider, Magnus sickly understands why the rest of the room was cleared.

At last Alexander’s flesh settles, although it is barely visible beneath the mass of limbs that have emerged from him. They hover across the room, fingers grasping at whatever they touch; burning against light fixtures, scrambling against the wall. Alexander’s body shudders again. The movement ripples out along the endless limbs. For a second they stop moving. Then their eyes open.

A thousand pupils lock onto Magnus from the skin that fills the room.

Alexander _shrieks_.

What follows is not a wave but a flood. The room suffocates with it, that same dark feeling from before. Magnus shakes with the intensity. Around him, the shadowhunters fall to their knees, hands flying to whatever runes they find first, mouths opening in silent agony.

Magnus does not fall. And suddenly, he knows.

The eyes of the flesh follow him when he takes his first steps forward. He is cautious at first, unsure if the limbs will lash at him, but they remain still. He moves.

For all his shock, he cannot find it in himself to be surprised that it was his Alexander who came to be this.

If ever there was a nephilim suited true angelic horror, it would be him.

It’s heady, what seeps into his lungs. A concentrated version of something he’s always known, but never identified until this very moment. Dark and heavy and free. What hangs in the air is his birthright. And now, Alexander has joined him in it.

The air is singed by the weight of a fallen angel.

Alexander’s body thrashes in revolt. His angelic essence will not give up that easily. He must have made his decision weeks ago, finally and definitively chosen Edom. Ever since then, half of his bloodline has been fighting for righteousness.

Finally, achingly, Magnus makes his way over to the bedside. He kneels beside Brother Jeremiah, still doubled over in pain, and levels his face with Alexander’s. Tries to keep his heart together at the anguished frown on his beloved’s face.

“Alexander,” he says. The angel’s eyes flicker behind his lids.

“Magnus,” his lips form.

“Yes, my love. That’s it. I’m here.”

The moment he takes Alexander’s hand, all heaven breaks loose.

He weaves their fingers together - making sure to find one of Alexander’s non-angelic hands - and suddenly the limbs filling the room spasm and flail. They each fling wildly from side to side, crashing into walls, tangling with long-forgotten furniture, knocking into the shadowhunters still disarmed on the floor. They twist around, searching blindly, until a single finger brushes Magnus. Then they descend. Tearing, grabbing, pulling, seizing. Any edge of clothing, any bare skin they can find. They rip from every direction, trying to take Magnus apart, to remove the virus sinking into their precious mortal form.

Magnus stands his ground. He squeezes his eyes shut. Focuses. He breathes, taking in the energy from the room, finding the matching force within himself. Magic sinks to his fingertips, heavy with sin, and he _pushes_. Alexander’s hand is like a vice against his palm. He heaves out, forcing magic from himself harder than he ever has before, trying to forget the skin and nails that burn with every handful of him they find. Strength pulls from his muscles into the tendons of his fingers into Alexander. Somewhere beyond them, some angel cries for mercy. Magnus ignores it for the words on his own lips.

“ _Fall to me_.”

~~

There are no new fallen angels.

The matter is drilled into every nephilim that moves through the classes of Alicante. They learn of their origins, their birthright. They hear of Raziel and his infinite mercy; his vision for humanity; those who betrayed him and descended through the deep realms to become the first demons. They are told of angelic power and demonic corruption. Of how they are to carry on the legacy of the former and destroy the latter. They are winning. There are, after all, no new fallen angels.

Whatever they have heard about a Lightwood and the New York Institute is pure blasphemy.

Far below them, two men regard the vast lands of Edom.

One stands tall, confident in his dynasty. Demonic blood flows through him, shifting with the sands of hell. He was born to sin, heir to it, and his watch over his subjects sends them cowering.

The gaze of the other, stood beside him, is more cautious. Still new to the realm, he does not yet know it, but is eager to learn. There is some vigilance in his manner, still leftover from the angelic senses that have so recently left him. Yet as he takes the hand of the king, he cannot find regret in his decision.

They hold each other and delight in the fall.

**Author's Note:**

> GOD KNOWS I NEED TO USE MY RELIGIOUS STUDIES DEGREE FOR SOMETHING
> 
> I'm not 100% sure of what this is but it sure is... something. I wanted to write about how Alec ended up in Edom with Magnus in this AU, so here we are.
> 
> Title is from Seven Swans by Sufjan Stevens. Not from In the Devil's Territory this time! But they're on the same album and both are about God so like, whatever. Also, you aren't my mum.
> 
> For inevitably more garbage, follow on me [tumblr](https://thattrainssailed.tumblr.com/).


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